


Towards Break of Day

by testosterone_tea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Inexperienced Sherlock, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/testosterone_tea/pseuds/testosterone_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock opens the matchbox and finds that he's been enchanted. He can only speak in lines of literature, and it's making all sorts of communication problems. Will Sherlock discover the truth about the matchbox, and will he be able to tell John how he feels when he can't even tell him about the weather?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tis one thing to be tempted

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all,
> 
> This new work of mind is for [goddessofliteratureandsarcasm](http://goddessofliteratureandsarcasm.tumblr.com/) for winning the giveaway draw for a long, chaptered work. I'm thinking this one is going to be around ten chapters and hopefully 25000 words long.
> 
> I would like to apologize for being away so long, but I was in the hospital dealing with serious illness. I am back once again, so thank you to those readers who are bearing with me.
> 
> Without further ado, I give you this piece.

The first thing that Sherlock decided was that it wasn't his fault. John had insisted that Sherlock not open the damned matchbox, not after one man had been found driven mad surrounded by matchboxes. Sherlock was certain that it was some sort of coincidence, but John had continued in his superstitious nonsense and not allowed Sherlock to open any.

So Sherlock had waited until John was asleep to go through the matchboxes again.

For the most part, nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Sherlock had almost given up on opening matchboxes, because it had become tedious. He'd just get John to do it later, now that he'd determined that nothing out of the ordinary was happening here.

Until he'd opened the one with the blinding golden light.

After blinking odd after-images out of his vision, Sherlock had shook his head and sneezed. Nothing else had happened – or so he thought.

But upon John entering the next morning, Sherlock opened his mouth to demand John pay attention, and instead he said, "O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention."

John looked at him strangely. "What was that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowned. That wasn't what he'd been intending to say at _all_. Granted, occasionally when he was very low on sleep, things came out the wrong way. Paying much more attention to what he actually wanted to say, he opened his mouth again.

What Sherlock wanted to say was, "Tea, John."

What came out instead was: "Can one desire too much of a good thing?"

John's forehead wrinkled, and he asked, "Are you quoting Shakespeare or something? I didn't think you knew any Shakespeare."

Neither did Sherlock. The only reason he even knew who the name Shakespeare was referring to was because it was such common knowledge in England and was so often brought up that it would do no good to delete it entirely. However, he couldn't quote it from memory, but if John thought what he was saying sounded like Shakespeare, then that was probably what it was.

He tried again. He tried for, "It's raining again today."

Normally he wouldn't bother with such a mundane observation, but he needed more data on how what he was trying to say translated into whatever was coming out of his mouth.

What came out of his mouth was: "So foul and fair a day I have not seen."

And then Sherlock remembered the matchbox and the strange golden light. Sherlock immediately discounted magic, because he refused to consider such an unscientific possibility as an answer for what had happened. Perhaps it had hypnotized him into only speaking in Shakespearean quotations? What kind of apparatus would be required for such a thing?

Sherlock got up and went over to the pile of matchboxes he'd been examining the night before.

"Sherlock, I told you yesterday not to bother with the matchboxes. We still haven't figured out what drove that poor man mad. What if they're poisoned somehow?"

Shakespeare might yet drive Sherlock mad, if this persisted.

"O, let me not me mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!" Sherlock exclaimed, and then pouted. 

"Right, I understand. You can quote Shakespeare. You can stop anytime now," John said, rolling his eyes.

"Suit the action to the word, the word to the action," Sherlock grumbled. 

He wasn't even sure what that meant, or what he had been trying to say. Not that it much mattered, as John was unlikely to understand most of what he said. 

"What did you do, go and memorize Shakespearean quotations just to annoy me?" John asked, sounding unaccountably delighted with this idea.

Rather than say anything, because nothing he said made any sense anyway, Sherlock went over to the table and picked up a matchbox.

"Don't touch that, Sherlock," John said. "We need to have them sent to a lab or something to be tested."

What Sherlock meant to say was, "Too late," but what came out was, "We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone."

Sherlock let out a frustrated huff and handed John the matchbox. John took it and frowned, turning it over in his fingers. Sherlock sighed and picked up another matchbox, opening it. John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock raised a finger to stop him. Sherlock opened another and another, leaving them all opened up in a line. Then, he took the one John was holding, the one that had started this strange Shakespearean twist on his life.

"Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall," Sherlock said with a sigh.

He opened it. Nothing happened.

John sighed. "I get it, they're harmless. We should still get them tested for chemicals."

Sherlock couldn't think of any chemicals that would compel somebody to quote Shakespeare. There must be something, though, because it certainly wasn't magic. 

"If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction," Sherlock groused to nobody in particular.

"If you say so," John said, eying Sherlock dubiously.

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air. How long would he be stuck only being able to quote Shakespeare in order to communicate? This was quickly becoming maddening. John was no help at all, as Sherlock hadn't been able to convey to him that there was a problem. 

Sherlock tried to consider ways around his impediment. He could write John a note. It would be tedious to write down everything he wanted to say, but it was better than not being able to communicate at all. He found a pen and paper and sat down, pondering on what to tell John. Saying that he'd opened the matchbox and that it had emitted golden light didn't sound credible to him. Even less credible was the idea that Sherlock was now forced into speaking in Shakespearean quotations. 

He looked down at the paper and found that he'd scrawled something on the paper.

_So true a fool is love, that in your will,  
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill._

What kind of mindless drivel was this? He tried again.

_What is your substance, whereof are you made,  
That millions of strange shadows on you tend? ___

__Sherlock stopped again. Could he only write in this form as well? Frantically, he opened up the nearest laptop (John's) and tried to type in the password. This was soundly rejected, and Sherlock watched his fingers carefully, typing in one letter at a time. This time it worked, but only because he watched as each finger came down on each button._ _

__He opened up a word document and tried to type in a message to John._ _

___Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,  
As with your shadow I with these did play._ _ _

__Concentrating again, Sherlock painstakingly watched himself type each letter individually in the same style that John usually wrote blog entries. J-O-H-N. There, he'd typed John's name. Very slowly, he composed his message, but anytime he got distracted enough, it would segue off into another sonnet. Eventually he had on his screen: JOHN. OPENED BOX. BRIGHT LIGHT. SHAKESPEARE._ _

__That didn't seem very coherent. However, as it had proven very difficult to even get this brief message across, Sherlock had to concede that it would take much too long and take far too much effort to communicate like this to anyone._ _

__Maybe he could do the same thing with words?_ _

__He tried. He tried all day, when John had gone out to work, had attempted to concentrate on individual words instead of the sentence as a whole. However, that didn't work, because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't disassociate a single word from the sentence he intended. He found what worked best was reading the words off the screen by concentrating only on single words._ _

__That would still require him to write everything out first, and then say it out loud while sounding like a demented robot person, like those automatons off of that show with the alien in the box that John liked. This was just not a feasible way of communicating without sounding... as if he'd gone mad._ _

__Was this actually what had happened to that man that had opened the matchbox?_ _

__Sherlock's musing was interrupted by the sound of feet on the stairs. Measured, even footsteps, the occasional thunk of an umbrella tip marking the floor: Mycroft._ _

__He appeared in the doorway looking like his usual corpulent self, and Sherlock automatically went to tell Mycroft to piss off._ _

__What he said was, "Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania."_ _

__"Excuse me, brother dear, but are you alluding to 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' in order to tell me that you think I'm the queen of the fairies?" Mycroft's perfunctory smile was nauseating._ _

__"Let me play the lion too: I will roar, that I will do any man's heart good to hear me," Sherlock said._ _

__"There's no need to mock me, Sherlock. I have come to tell you that Mummy requires our attendance for her birthday luncheon this weekend. You will attend."_ _

__Sherlock shook his head in lieu of answering in some form of iambic pentameter._ _

__"Sherlock, you will come," Mycroft said warningly. "You know how upset Mummy will be if you do not attend."_ _

__"I am not bound to please thee with my answer," Sherlock said curtly._ _

__At least that had come out somewhat correctly._ _

__Mycroft frowned. "It's unlike you to speak only in quotations. What are you up to now? A murder at the Globe, perhaps? No, perhaps not, as I would have heard of it by now."_ _

__"For he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile," Sherlock said._ _

__"That was just shoddy, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "The context of that quotation gives it an entirely different meaning than the one you meant."_ _

__Sherlock shrugged. He had no control over what came out of his mouth, at least not any that he could discern. That gave him a new notion – perhaps if he _did_ memorize some lines of Shakespeare he would better be able to control what he said. Perhaps he could even communicate properly. _ _

__Ignoring Mycroft completely, he pulled John's laptop towards him again and began typing out, letter by bloody letter, WORKS OF SHAKESPEARE. Mycroft frowned, although not from the indignity of being ignored. Sherlock didn't care if Mycroft figured it out. In the very least, he would be able to tell John what was wrong._ _

__Mycroft said, "You hate literature. I have never once seen you read a play by Shakespeare, but here you are, quoting the Bard himself – badly. Whatever could it mean?"_ _

__"Fairies begone, and be all ways away," Sherlock said._ _

__Mycroft huffed, but he disappeared back down the stairs. Sherlock looked at the most popular of Shakespeare's plays – Hamlet and MacBeth most chief amongst them. He quickly found that while he could read out loud entire scenes, he could not pick and choose individual lines to say if they were mundane lines, and not well-known quotes. He repeatedly said, "To be or not to be, that it the question" in order to ascertain that he could, in fact, say it on purpose._ _

__It was a very strange and arbitrary system that he was bound to. Sherlock was beginning to think that only something so illogical could be magic._ _

__Sherlock was so absorbed in in thought, that John arrived home without him noticing._ _

__"How now, spirit! whither wander you?" Sherlock murmured._ _

__"Sherlock, I get it, you're talking in Shakespearean for some experiment, but could you please at least talk to me normally?" John asked. "Just for a second or two. Ask me for tea, talk about the weather. Anything."_ _

__Sherlock did try, he really did. But what came out was, "The empty vessel makes the loudest sound."_ _

__"Really, Sherlock?" John asked. "Taunting me and not doing as I ask in one sentence."_ _

__Sherlock stood, found the computer, and turned it to John. It still had the words written on the screen from before._ _

__John squinted at the screen and read, "John. Opened box. Bright light. Shakespeare."_ _

__John looked at Sherlock, who shrugged, his lips moving into a customary pout. John looked at the screen again, and then back at Sherlock._ _

__"So... I take it that you mean that you opened that blasted matchbox when I told you not to, is that right?" John asked._ _

__Sherlock nodded in exasperation._ _

__John looked once again at the screen. "Bright light. Do you mean that the box made a bright light, or that you saw a bright light in front of your eyes like something in the box affected your vision?"_ _

__Sherlock held up one finger._ _

__"Okay, the first one," John said. "And you're saying... with all seriousness, that after this happened, you've been speaking Shakespeare lines... and _only_ Shakespeare lines?"_ _

__Sherlock nodded tersely and crossed his arms._ _

__"Now, don't you start that, you nitwit," John said. "I did tell you not to bloody open the box, right?"_ _

__Sherlock shrugged._ _

__"And you can't write anything down either," John said, gesturing at the screen. "I assume if you could, you would have typed a better explanation that this."_ _

__Sherlock shook his head, and went and slumped in his chair. At least John was finally beginning to understand what was wrong._ _

__"This is insane," John said. "I almost can't believe it, but I know for a dead fact that you hate Shakespeare and also that you wouldn't do anything that would interfere with a case."_ _

__Sherlock nodded and John sighed._ _

__"This is going to be wonderful," John said, mostly to himself. "My whole method of communication is going to be asking you questions until you nod."_ _

__Sherlock nodded, and John hit his palm to his forehead in exasperation._ _

__"This wouldn't be a problem if you had just listened to me," John said._ _

__Sherlock got up and began pacing. John was right, of course, but that wasn't the most pressing matter. How on earth was Sherlock going to be able to go out on cases when he couldn't even communicate properly with John? John, as strange as it was to think this, was brilliant compared to most people, and much better at thinking things out than Lestrade. How was he going to be able to get across anything?_ _

__John. John was always the key to his problems. John would come with him and know that if he asked the right questions, eventually he would find an answer. There was no other way to do it but that._ _

__The other major question for Sherlock was: how had the blasted matchbox become like this? Had someone, as insane as it sounded, cast a spell or enchantment of some kind on it? For what purpose was this done?_ _

__Sherlock would have to look into this, and that meant solving the matchbox case, and quickly._ _


	2. Quae negata grata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are on the case of the mysterious matchboxes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that NaNoWriMo is over, hopefully I will be able to add more to this more often!

The first thing that Sherlock decided that he needed to do was find out if the other person, the man that the authorities thought was mad was actually mad or... like Sherlock.

Except, Sherlock definitely couldn't go by himself, because the likelihood of Sherlock also being thrown in a psychiatric hospital was high unless someone were with him. 

Of course, by someone, he really meant John.

Sherlock's attempt at communicating this to John were going very interestingly.

"Once more unto the breach dear friends, once more," Sherlock insisted.

"I can see that this bout of Shakespeare quotes hasn't yet worn off," John said wryly. "What do you want this time Sherlock? You've already ended up in enough trouble."

No amount of talking was going to get this dealt with.

"What fool hath added water to the sea?" Sherlock lamented.

Eventually, Sherlock managed to get his point across by finding the newspaper clipping from the case and underlining the relevant information.

"Oh, so this person is important to your case?" John asked.

Sherlock tapped the name of the hospital emphatically.

"Oh, I see," John said. "Well, you're going to have to wait until I've finished breakfast, at least."

Sherlock waited impatiently for John to finish up with his morning, but John was in no hurrying mood. By the time he'd finished breakfast, washed the dishes, completed his morning ablutions, and gone to get dressed, Sherlock was in something of what John termed 'a tizzy.'

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here!" Sherlock shouted at him in frustration.

"I get it, I get it," John said, looking quite cross. "Don't start with the Shakespeare again, we can go."

They got a cab to the hospital, and John said all the necessary niceties to everyone in order for them to be let in. John was always so nice to all of these silly idiots, but Sherlock dared not open his mouth, for fear of what exactly would emerge. John seemed to be enjoying this.

They were ushered inside, and Sherlock was surprised to see that the pychiatric ward wasn't actually as terrible a place as he had imagined. There was a TV room, and a lounge area, and even a gymnasium.

"Not as much like 'One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest' as you'd imagined, right?" John said, seeming to read his mind.

Sherlock shook his head and shrugged.

One of the nurses, the tag on her lanyard reading 'Chantelle,' urged a patient before her.

"Here you are, Mr. Fielding. This is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson! They want to talk to you," Chantelle said brightly, smiling at John.

John smiled back.

Oh no. Sherlock knew that smile, and it meant that John was on the scent of a different kind than that of clues. Sherlock glared at her.

"It's my pleasure, miss..." John said.

"Chantelle," the nurse said.

She and John began chatting about inane topics, and Sherlock turned to the aforementioned Mr. Fielding. Sherlock sighed. Well, here went nothing.

"We would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us," Sherlock said.

Mr. Fielding, who hadn't looked at all like he was inclined to talk to Sherlock at all, suddenly turned to stare at him.

"One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons, a natural perspective, that is and is not!" Mr. Fielding exclaimed, by which Sherlock took to mean that they were both in the same predicament.

Sherlock took out the matchbox from his pocket, and upon seeing it, Mr. Fielding quickly backed away, eyes wide. 

"Are you all right, Mr. Fielding?" asked Chantelle, looking up from her conversation with John. "If he's getting upset, maybe you should go."

Upon hearing this, Mr. Fielding calmed down, and Sherlock hastily put the matchbox away. Sherlock took a map of London out of his pocket, went to a nearby table and flattened it out. Mr. Fielding looked it over, and Sherlock pointedly patted the pocket that had the matchbox in it. Seeming to understand, Mr. Fielding approached the map.

This was the most frustrated Sherlock had ever been. How could this have happened to him? And of course, John was being most useless in this case because the pretty nurse had taken his attention away. Sherlock glowered at them briefly, before turning back to Mr. Fielding.

Mr. Fielding had taken up a pencil and circled a spot on the map.

"Follow your spirit, and upon this charge cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George,'" Mr. Fielding said solemnly.

Sherlock wanted to say not to worry, that he and John were going to catch whoever had made all these matchboxes and find a way to fix them. Instead, he held the man's eyes and nodded briefly, then went over to the pile of old newspapers lying on one of the tables. He rapidly searched through until he found the one announcing his return. He brought it back to the table where Mr. Fielding was.

Mr. Fielding leaned over his shoulder as he carefully underlined his own name and the word 'detective.' This seemed to excite Mr. Fielding quite a lot, as he smiled and pointed at the picture, the one of Sherlock in that awful hat. Sherlock nodded and gave Mr. Fielding an emphatic thumbs up.

"Have you made a friend, Sherlock?" asked John, coming over.

Sherlock nodded, showing John the map with the circle on it.

"You're brilliant, you know that?" John asked. "You can work cases without even speaking."

Sherlock wanted to say, 'Only with you by my side, John,' but he couldn't say anything without it coming out in lines of Shakespeare. With all of Shakespeare's love sonnets out there, that would probably end in disaster.

As they left, Sherlock realized that John had the nurse's number written down in his pocket. Sherlock swiftly pick-pocketed him, only to have John grab his hand.

"Ah, ah, Sherlock, I'm wise to your tricks now," John said. "Let's go find out about this matchbox maker, shall we?"

John hailed them a cab, which took longer than it ought to have, but Sherlock felt that if there was a way to hail a taxi in Shakespearean, then he would have done it already.

*~*~*

The place that Mr. Fielding had circled on the map was an old, abandoned warehouse. Sherlock checked the map again, but the results were the same. Mr. Fielding had circled this warehouse for reasons unknown to Sherlock. There was no one here, and there hadn't been in quite some time.

Sherlock circled the building, looking for a way in. Eventually, Sherlock found a window with the glass knocked out, but it was ten feet up off the ground. Sherlock couldn't jump that high, especially not in his nice shoes.

"Fairies away!" Sherlock exclaimed, pointing at the window.

"Are you calling yourself a fairy, Sherlock?" John asked, chortling.

Sherlock simply crossed his arms and waited.

"Fine!" John said. "But this time you'd better let me in once you're inside."

John put his back against the wall of the building and bent his knees. Sherlock stood on John's knee, then climbed onto his shoulder. John slowly straightened his legs, pushing Sherlock up the wall. Sherlock briefly admired John's strength. Grasping the window ledge, Sherlock pulled himself up and found himself inside the warehouse.

Sherlock briefly considered leaving John out there for flirting with the nurse, but he sighed and went to find the door. When he opened it, John was waiting.

"And here I thought you'd never get here," John said. "Well, let's go then."

"Be well aware," Sherlock suddenly said. "Least suddaine mischiefe ye too rash provoke: The danger hid, the place unknowne and wilde."

"That's not Shakespeare," John said, frowning. "Not that I'm an expert or anything, but that sounds like something else."

Sherlock shrugged and continued on into the building. It was a huge, empty space, mostly filled with dust, dirt, and cobwebs. There were a few broken crates at one end, and ropes and twine tangled on the floor. 

As Sherlock walked around, he could make out some tire treads that lead to the back, where a great garage-type door lead to the back alleyway. It was closed, but a few of the boards were broken at the bottom. One patch of the floor was swept free of dust, and upon closer inspection, there was a matchstick in one of the piles of dirt on the floor.

"How odd," John said. "What is this supposed to be? There's nothing here."

There was plenty here that John wasn't seeing, but Sherlock couldn't tell John as he did normally that he had a database of tire treads memorized. He also couldn't tell him anything about dust settling patterns, or the faint outline of shoe prints in the dust.

There would be a CCTV camera set up outside on the corner as well, and Sherlock would be able to figure out which car it was based on the tire treads. It would be easy.

It would be asking Mycroft for help that would be the difficult for Sherlock, in more ways than just the usual.

"You're such a clever lad," John muttered, half to himself.

Sherlock blushed and turned his coat collar up, hoping that John wouldn't notice. It was dim light, and John wasn't the most observant of people. It was conceivable that John wouldn't see the flush on Sherlock's face.

"You all right, Sherlock?" John asked. "You look a little flushed."

"True, and a mind differing from the tumultuary opinion; for _quae negata grata_ ," Sherlock blurted out.

"What?" John asked in confusion. "Latin? Now I'm sure that it isn't all Shakespeare. I'm knowledgeable in some Latin, obviously, but I have no idea what you meant."

Sherlock did. _Quae negata grata_ meant "that which is denied is desired." It spoke of repression of feeling that would burst out if kept bottled up. Sherlock did not like the sounds of that. If anything, he definitely wanted to keep his unfortunate feelings hidden. John was not to know.

At least this latest verse had distracted John from his unfortunate reaction. Sherlock decided that this was a good tactic, and continued.

"Mirrour of grace and Majestie divine, Great Lady of the greatest Isle, whose light like Phoebus lampe throughout the world doth shine," Sherlock said.

What Sherlock meant was that they should go speak to Mycroft, but instead, strange words spewed forth from his mouth. These words certainly made no sense at all to Sherlock, and John just looked at him strangely.

"I'm not sure what you mean, mate," John said.

Sherlock almost cringed at the word. He hated it when John called him 'mate.' It almost seemed like John was distancing himself from Sherlock by calling him that.

Sherlock tried to get across the idea of Mycroftness through mime. It was better than whatever verse it was he was speaking now. John was right, it probably wasn't Shakespeare. Whatever it was, it was probably even more difficult to comprehend.

Apparently, umbrellas were impossible to mime. John had no idea what he meant. Also, sleek black cars were also hard to get across. Finally, in frustration, Sherlock held his hands in front of his belly and made the shape of a large belly.

"Oh, Mycroft, good idea," John said.

They left the old warehouse, and Sherlock dusted himself off thoroughly before John hailed a cab to take them to the Diogenes Club, which is where Sherlock knew Mycroft frequented on this day of the week. Sherlock wanted to remind John that speaking wasn't allowed, but was unsure of how it would come out.

"Give thy thoughts no tongue," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, yeah, no talking," John said. "I remember what happened last time."

They went to the Diogenes club and were shown in by a waiting attendant. They were taken into a meeting room to wait for Mycroft to be brought. Sherlock paced impatiently, and John reached out a hand to touch his waist.

Sherlock froze. John's fingers brushed across one hipbone and Sherlock waited, his breath caught in his chest, for John to do something.

"Settle down, would you, chap?" John asked.

And there was that "chummy" type word again to dash his feelings like a splash of cold water down the back of his neck. How Sherlock hated how John felt the need to constantly redefine their relationship as nothing more than friendly.

It was just as he was having these thoughts that Mycroft came in.

"Ah, Sherlock, I see you've been getting into dusty warehouses again, tsk, tsk," Mycroft said. "And what do we need this time?" 

"We need CCTV camera records," John answered for them.

"Oh?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow. "I will give them, if my dear brother asks for them. And will take Mummy out to the theatre."

"The empty vessel makes the loudest sound," Sherlock replied.

"Really, Sherlock, you're still going on with this?" Mycroft said. "I was certain you'd be tired of it before the end of an hour."

Sherlock was heartily tired of it, but unfortunately, he couldn't get rid of it. Sherlock looked pointedly at John, who realized Sherlock's present difficulty.

"Ah, about that," John said. "The most recent case has rendered Sherlock unable to speak except in some sort of verse. He's branched out a bit from Shakespeare, we think, but he can't speak normally at all."

"How curious that you think I would believe such a story," said Mycroft.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," John said. "Are you going to help us or not?"

"I don't know, perhaps if my brother is quite finished with the insults in Shakespeare's tongue, then I can help you with a little something," Mycroft said. "That, and my earlier requirement."

John looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged. At least it wouldn't be Les Miserables, which Mycroft had taken their parents to last Christmas season.

"Well, what will it be, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked. "Think you can hold off the insults?"

Sherlock sighed, but nodded.

"And you can take Mummy to see Chicago next Tuesday as well," Mycroft said.

Sherlock nodded again. Chicago wasn't the worst one he could be forced to see. At least there was murder in it.

"Okay, you can have your CCTV footage," Mycroft said, rolling his eyes. "Although Lord knows why you need it."

"Oh, I don't know, perhaps we're trying to get Sherlock to be able to speak normally again?" John said sarcastically, ever at Sherlock's defense, which was nice, since Sherlock couldn't currently hold up his own.

"You don't honestly think that I believe that he can't speak normally?" Mycroft asked.

Before anyone could say anything, Sherlock's phone went off. Sherlock grabbed it and saw that Lestrade was on the line. He quickly handed his phone to John, who answered promptly. Lestrade wouldn't even think it strange that John was answering his phone, since it happened so often.

"Hello?" John said. "Yes, of course we can. Where are you? We'll be on our way shortly. Sherlock, case."

Sherlock held up eight fingers and tilted his head questioningly.

"At least an eight, Lestrade said," John said.

Mycroft looked at them both quizically, and frowned. "You really must have something wrong with you. You would never imperil the cases."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and gestured to John. Mycroft ceased to matter.

There was a case now.


	3. Past my Depth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is no closer to getting his problem fixed, but John is closer than ever to the nurse he met at the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry everyone! Once again I was a bit longer with this chapter than I wanted to be! I have been embroiled in something exciting in real life, and it's been hard to get to my writing except for the tiny 221b things I've been writing for the Christmas advent.

"What bloody man is that?" Sherlock demanded the moment they were on the scene.

"We don't know yet," Lestrade said. "We haven't managed to discover his name or anything."

Sherlock immediately ducked down to crouch next to the body. Mid-50's man with obvious cholesterol problems who had been viciously stabbed several times in the back with... a very small, thin edged object. Probably a nail file. But the stabs were very shallow and superficial. They weren't what had killed the victim.

A search through his pockets revealed the culprit. Sherlock handed it to John, who immediately knew what it was.

"He was diabetic," John said. "Whoever stabbed him took his wallet, and also took his insulin. He died because whoever it was that stabbed him took it."

"But why did someone stab him with such a small object?" Lestrade asked. "It probably wouldn't have killed him."

At least Lestrade was learning to ask sort of the right questions. Sherlock turned the body over and immediately had his answer. The man was obviously a serial adulterer. This crime had likely been committed by two people. Although, whether they meant for him to die from his wounds wasn't apparent.

But how was he to convey this to John and Lestrade?

He beckoned to John, who came to crouch next to him. 

"What is it?" John asked. "Do you have something?"

Of course he did. Sherlock picked up the man's left hand and pointed at the man's hand. John examined it, finding the lighter skin around his ring finger.

"He was married," John said. "But where's his ring?"

Sherlock patted his own pockets in mime, feeling a little foolish that he had to do this kind of mimicry in order to be understood.

"It was in his things that got taken, along with his insulin," John said. "So who took that? Did they mean to kill him or not?"

Sherlock simply shrugged. There was no way of knowing that yet, but surely even Lestrade didn't need any help figuring out what to do next. This was easy. Two people had done this, and there were probably only two people who would want to do this: his wife and his girlfriend. Sherlock was more interested in finding out what the weapon was that had made the marks.

But how to convey to John that he wanted to go to the morgue? In frustration, Sherlock opened his mouth to try and tell him what he wanted.

"Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme to take into the air my quiet breath," Sherlock said.

"What's that about death?" John said. "The guy is dead? You want to know why he's dead? Oh! You want to go to the morgue."

Sherlock stared at John in amazement. How had John figured it out from such a useless line of whatever literary nonsense it was he was spouting now?

"We can get to the morgue from here on foot," John said cheerfully. "No need for a cab."

Molly was at the lab when they got there, and was in fact, just beginning to remove the man's clothes in order to examine him.

"I thought you might show up sooner or later," Molly said. "Looks like we've got an interesting one now. He has some strange stab wounds, superficial and not what caused death."

Sherlock automatically opened his mouth to say something, and what came out was, "Poor lady, she were better love a dream."

"Sorry?" Molly asked in surprise.

"Er," John interrupted. "Ignore that, he's lost a bet with Lestrade, has to say everything in lines of verse or something like that. I think that was Shakespeare."

"Oh," Molly said, returning to her unconcerned state. "I'm sure it must have been quite the bet for Sherlock to have lost to end up not being able to speak properly."

"It certainly was," John said, and laughed awkwardly.

Sherlock smiled flatly and said, "I will speak daggers to her, but use none."

"The daggers already been used on someone today, mate," John said, and Sherlock cringed. Why did John feel like he had to use such chummy words? They hadn't been like that before, and if completely baffled Sherlock as to why John felt the need to call him those types of friendly word now. Unless it was to distance himself from Sherlock.

Molly got back to work, and she soon had the man cleaned up and ready to examine. The very small, thin marks weren't very deep, and Sherlock examined them carefully. They certainly weren't made by a dagger, as Sherlock had said before.

"Or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?" Sherlock murmured absent-mindedly as he examined the body.

"What's that, more Shakespeare?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged.

John was about to say something when his phone rang, and he answered it. Sherlock pretended to be enthralled with the injuries, while at the same time listening in on what John was saying. There weren't that many people with John's number these days.

John wandered over to the other side of the room. He smiled and exclaimed, "Chantelle!" into the mobile, beaming.

Oh, wonderful. Just what he needed, John being useless because he was too busy fawning over some woman who he hardly knew. Didn't John realize there was a case on? It was a relatively simple case, and the only mystery had almost nothing to do with the actual death – or, in the least, they were a secondary injury rather than a primary injury.

"Now?" John was saying, kicking his foot against the floor. 

John was obviously teetering on the edge of leaving and going on a date with this Chantelle person. She was a nurse, so obviously John would feel like there was something in common already. How annoying. This one might be harder to drive off.

"Well, I'm kind of in the middle of something," John said, glancing at Sherlock. "Yeah, I'll keep you updated. I think we'll be done with this soon though."

Sherlock morosely considered whether there was anything he could do to get John to stay and look at the body rather than go off with Chantelle. It was only a matter of time before this case was finished. Lestrade was probably interviewing the wife and girlfriend right now. Lestrade wasn't the most astute, but even he couldn't miss the significance of the missing ring.

"I think it was a letter opener," Molly said. "I'm not certain what the exact shape was, however. Want to help me with this next bit?"

What Molly meant by "this next bit" was repeatedly stabbing a chunk of meat until the same pattern was created. It wouldn't be that interesting, but at least the repetition of it would let out some of the frustration that Sherlock felt.

Sherlock nodded in response, not trusting his tongue.

"So, what's happening now, Sherlock?" John asked, having finished his conversation.

"We're going to try and figure out what stabbed our victim," Molly said. "Would you like to help, John?"

"Oh, no, if you're just doing that, I've got a date waiting on my freedom," John said. "Well, if that's all, I'll just be on my way."

Sherlock watched morosely as John left and muttered to himself, "Yet if hope has flown away in a night, or in a day, in a vision, or in none, is it therefore the less gone?"

"What was that, Sherlock?" Molly asked.

"I am past my depth in lust and I must swim or drown," Sherlock said, then clapped his hands over his mouth in shock. _That_ was certainly not what he'd expected to say.

"Oh, I see," Molly said. "Well... shall we, then?"

Sherlock sighed in relief. Molly probably had a fair idea of what he meant by his lines, because while she was quiet and a bit meek, she was very perceptive. At least if she realized his real feelings, then she would cease in her pursuit of him.

Molly prepared everything, and Sherlock got a pair of gloves for himself. Then the pair of them spent the afternoon stabbing various chunks of meat with all manner of things, including knives, screwdrivers, nail files, letter openers, and even pens and pencils.

"That was a good afternoon, wasn't it," Molly said. "I'm sure John must be done whatever it was he was doing now. Do you think it was the letter opener?"

Sherlock picked up the now clean letter opener and gave it to Molly, nodding solemnly.

"Well, that's it then, Sherlock. Can I get you anything?"

Sherlock left the morgue with a bag of fresh ears and some toenails as well. He planned to do nothing but set them on fire at home in revenge for John leaving him by himself when he couldn't talk. Burnt toenails had a very distinct scent, and he hoped John wouldn't forget it anytime soon. That would teach him to abandon Sherlock in the middle of a case.

In truth, he was not just angry about being abandoned, but about being abandoned for yet another insipid woman who he would date for a few days or maybe even a week and then blame Sherlock when their dates were interrupted too often. Unfortunately, Chantelle was a nurse, so her profession might lend her extra points with John. 

He had been so distracted that he hadn't even realized that someone had come into Baker street and left him a flash drive. Mycroft's people were getting better at leaving no trace of their passage, and Sherlock ruefully stopped his study of how flame-resistant nail clippings were and went to get John's computer. This was far more important. The sooner he got his voice back, the sooner he could use his usually impressive skills of deduction to drive Chantelle away.

What would he say first? Possibly that he knew that she often lived beyond her means in order to try and make herself look flashy and attract attention? How he knew that she was going grey but was covering up with hair dye? Or perhaps that she would sometimes switch around people's stuff in their rooms just to cause drama? The last one was the one most likely to drive John away from her. He took his duty to people seriously, whereas she liked being in charge of vulnerable people for more malicious reasons.

Not that John would listen, even if Sherlock did point it out. It was always his fault, wasn't it.

Why was everything always Sherlock's fault? Even things that weren't his fault, such as being away for so long, and needing to fake his own death. That had been necessary to the survival of John, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, not to mention the countless lives he had probably saved from bringing down Moriarty's international crime circle.

But John didn't want to hear it. John was somewhat content with Sherlock's apology, but he still didn't realize how close John had come to not existing at all anymore. He hadn't realized that Sherlock had sacrificed so much for the good of his only friends, his city, and his country.

It was strange that Sherlock and John had both served their nation now, and both come away scarred from the ordeal.

Sherlock stopped moping, as much as he wanted to wallow in self pity for a little while longer. He needed to figure out what it was that was keeping him from talking normally, and if there was a way to fix it. There was a part of him that still couldn't imagine that this was magic. There had to be something. A neurotoxin or hallucinogen – something that was messing around with the fundamentals of his brain.

That was another thing. How dare someone mess with the only thing that he had for himself? Having a wonderfully working brain and being able to communicate his thoughts was all he really had. Maybe he would gain more appreciation from being silent and unable to talk clearly.

Sherlock was in such a state of mind now, his thoughts spiralling ever downward, that he couldn't bring himself to pick up the flash drive and begin trying to figure out what it was that had rendered him basically mute. 

He took out his violin.

"The breathing instruments inspire, wake into voice each silent string, and sweep the sounding lyre! In a sadly-pleasing strain," he said to himself, because no one was there to hear him talking in such strange verse.

At least that made sense in his mind, because no one could take the music from him. He swept into a song, and it poured from his bow, communicating his feelings more clearly than he'd been able to speak. At least the matchbox hadn't taken this from him, because music had no words, but spoke to people without them.

"By Music, minds an equal temper know, nor swell too high, nor sink too low. If in the breast tumultuous joys arise, music her soft, assuasive voice applies," Sherlock said, playing something softer as he thought of John going away with Chantelle and leaving Sherlock by himself.

John had been able to figure out what he meant without hardly even trying. Sherlock was hard enough to understand as it was, but John had been the one to at least try. But he was only a distraction from John's seemingly endless quest to find a girlfriend, or god forbid, a wife.

Sherlock forgot all about his experiment in favour of playing his instrument, the only one that allowed him to express himself clearly. But he was only able to express his feelings clearly now that John wasn't here to hear it. John couldn't find out about his feelings, because that could be the last straw that drove John away.

Sherlock lost track of how long he played, but the horrible smell of burned toenails had almost completely faded by the time the sound of feet on the stairs started coming up. Sherlock didn't notice them, however, caught up as he was in playing.

"If music be the food of love, play on!" Sherlock shouted in rapture, not seeing that John had opened the door and was standing at the entrance to 221b.

"Sherlock?" he said in confusion. "Have you been burning something in here? What were you playing? It was nice."

"It was wonderful!" added Chantelle.

Sherlock's stomach sank. He had as good as revealed himself the best way that he knew how to, and John still didn't get it. He knew that he should be grateful that neither of them had understood, but instead it made his insides burn. How could he ever tell John in plain words, if the plainest way he knew how was not understood?

Sherlock dropped his stance, moving his stiff fingers to try and get the blood flowing into them again. He loosened the strings of his violin, and he put it away.

Then, he went into his room and closed the door.


	4. Heard Melodies are Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is stuck, both on the case, and in matters of the heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long! I know, I keep saying that I'll write it faster. I really will try to finish this up. I'm really enjoying writing it when I can get the time.

Sherlock didn't know when he had fallen asleep, but he must have at some point in his sulking, because John rapping on the door to his room woke him up. John poked his head through the door, and Sherlock blinked until his blurry image cleared.

"Wake up, Sherlock, we've got company," John said.

"What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?" Sherlock yawned.

"What's that about angels?" John asked in bemusement. "I'd almost say you were doing that on purpose now, if I didn't know that you know absolutely nothing about literature."

Sherlock snorted and rolled over. He knew who Shakespeare was, which was good enough for the spirit of British pride, wasn't it?

There weren’t many people who would bother Sherlock at this early hour of the morning, so Sherlock turned over and nestled back into the blankets. He didn’t much care if stupid Mycroft was left waiting. Sherlock lay there until John came back into his room and shoved at his shoulder.

“Come on then, sleepyhead, your brother is waiting,” John said. 

"My slumber – if I slumber – are not sleep, but a continuance of enduring thought, which I can resist not," Sherlock murmured sleepily and turned over.

“Come on, you,” John said, and he smiled so softly, that for a moment Sherlock was certain that he was still dreaming.

But John caught himself, and his smile faded.

“Your brother is waiting,” he said quietly, and then turned and left.

Sherlock was left to contemplate John’s smile in sleepy confusion. He eventually dragged himself to his feet, still wrapped in his sheet. Mycroft made a face at him as he walked into the sitting room clad in nothing but the sheet, feet bare, and hair a complete mess. He was accompanied by Anthea, whose nose was stuck in whatever was happening on her smartphone.

"And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, cluster'd around by all her starry Fays," Sherlock said, giving his brother a wide, false grin.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and said, “I have the tapes that you wanted. Don’t forget, it’s up to you to take Mummy out to the show later this week. Don’t try and skip it.”

Sherlock waved his hand in a shooing motion, and Mycroft’s mouth thinned.

“Very funny, my ungrateful sibling,” Mycroft said, shaking his head. “I’ll just be going before Sherlock spouts any more drivel.”

"Let me embrace thee toad, and love thee, O thou abhominable, loathsome gargarism, that will fetch up lungs, lights, heart, and liver, by scruples!" Sherlock agreed.

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes again before leaving. Sherlock caught Anthea smiling as she followed him out. She handed John a flash drive before leaving.

“It amazes me that you are still able to antagonize your brother when you can only speak in literary gibberish,” John said.

Sherlock nodded. It was a talent, he had to admit. Not that it was overly difficult to antagonize Mycroft once one knew him. Really, it was the only good thing about only being able to speak in literary nonsense, that he could still insult Mycroft.

Sherlock made a motion with his hand to indicate that he wanted the flashdrive. John rolled his eyes and handed it over without argument. He didn’t even say anything as Sherlock settled on the couch and pulled John’s laptop towards him.

Sherlock was much involved in the tape, watching for the mysterious van when John’s mobile receiving a text drew him out of it. John was grinning at the screen as he slowly texted back.

Ugh, it was Chantelle, going by John’s stance.

If only Sherlock had the time to drive her off, but he needed to be able to speak before that happened. Perhaps if he began leaving books around with titles suggesting of her shortcomings when she came to visit. Not that John would bring her around if he thought that Sherlock was purposefully trying to get rid of her presence at John’s side.

So he was a teeny bit jealous of the attention that John was paying to her, and not to his brilliant deductions. How was John to admire Sherlock’s deductions if he couldn’t even speak in order to voice them?

“Hey Sherlock, if you don’t need me, I’m heading over to Chantelle’s place,” John said, interrupting Sherlock’s train of thought.

Sherlock needed John. Of course he needed him, every moment of every day, and that was just the truth of the matter. He hadn’t been able to actually say it, not even back when he was able to speak properly.

Sherlock didn’t trust what would come out of his mouth if he protested, so he stayed silent, trying to appeal with his eyes alone.

John paused.

Was it… working?

“I’ll bring you back something from the restaurant,” John said, dashing his hopes again.

Once again, Sherlock was distracted from his main mission, which was to get his proper voice back, by John and his insistence on dating insipid women. 

This was really Sherlock’s own fault. He had, of course, determined that John suffered from latent bisexuality that he was in denial about, but Sherlock never pushed the matter. It could backfire, of course, and Sherlock was terrible at feelings. He didn’t know how John would react to being challenged on his sexuality. Likely, it wouldn’t go well.

Well, back to going through the tape to see which vehicle had been at the empty storage building. He was quite certain that he knew which tires and which vehicle he needed to be looking for. It was really quite simple, but the task of going through the tape was rather tedious.

He didn’t even need to focus entirely on the tape because it was such menial work that his brain could focus on more than one thing at once.

He might as well try and come up with a plan to get rid of Chantelle. He couldn’t count on getting his voice back in order to accomplish this goal, because time was of the essence. John attached himself far too easily to women who had no idea what John was really like.

To be sure, John could be very charming and gentlemanly in his own way. However, much like Sherlock, he found it tedious to carry on in such a manner. The difference was that Sherlock acknowledged this about himself, and John liked to pretend that he was some semblance of normal most of the time.

Ordinary. John was anything but, as much as he liked to pretend.

He could ‘accidentally’ set her on fire, that would probably work. No, that would get rid of Chantelle, but John would see through it immediately and get mad at Sherlock. He was always annoyed when something Sherlock did drove away one of his dates. But Sherlock didn’t have a choice if he wanted to keep John.

There was always experimenting with something that absolutely reeked, so that when she came over, the flat would smell intolerable. No, again, John would be annoyed, even if he didn’t realize what Sherlock was up to.

His only hope was to make Chantelle frustrated by having as many cases as possible to interrupt their dates. John was never mad about cases.

Which brought the issue back around to where it started. His inability to talk normally was interfering with his mission of getting rid of Chantelle by interrupting his case flow.

This brought his full attention back to the stupid CCTV camera feed he was going through, which he’d been watching for at least half an hour now on high speed. There was nothing more boring than this, but it had to be done in order to restore his ability to talk.

Surely he could get someone else to look through this for him? But no, no one else knew what type of vehicle had the sort of tire tracks he’d found in the warehouse.

Everything was going in circles.

“The lamp must be replenish’d, but even then it will not burn so long as I must watch,” Sherlock said in frustration and rested his chin in one hand.

He sat there for a while, waiting and watching, half in his own head, and half watching the tape. He was so enthralled by what was happening in his head, he didn’t notice when John arrived back until a hand fell on his shoulder.

“You all right, Sherlock?” asked John. “You look like you’re in a bit of a daze there.”

“I have essay’d, and in my mind there is a power to make these subjects to itself,”muttered Sherlock. He waved a hand at the screen and, in frustration, said, “But they avail not.”  
“As you say, Sherlock,” John said with a groan. “Well, that was an interesting date.”

Sherlock shrugged. Even if he were inclined to be supportive of John’s dating habits, which he wasn’t, he had no idea what constituted a proper date. He imagined most dates didn’t go according to the mainstream romantic ideal.

“She seemed interested in the cases,” John said. “I happened to mention one, and she was all ears when I told her the rest of it. Even the deductions. It was pretty amazing actually.”

Which was exactly not what Sherlock wanted.

“Maybe for once I’ll have a girlfriend who sticks around for a while,” John said, and laughed. “I warned her that we might have a case that interrupts a date once in a while, and you know what she said?”

Sherlock shrugged again noncommittally. 

“She said she wouldn’t mind!” John said. “Looks like something is going right for once.”

Wrong, wrong, wrong! That was the worst news that Sherlock had heard all day, and that included his fatness Mycroft paying a visit and telling him that he had to go watch a musical with their parents.

Why was everything going terribly? Sherlock frowned mightily at the screen and scowled. John was too caught up in humming and making himself tea to notice. Sherlock couldn’t even ask for a cup for himself thanks to this blasted whatever-it-was.

He was so distracted by this that he almost missed it.

There it was! Sherlock paused the feed to watch it. The van pulled into the alley to enter the back, where there was a huge garage door. Sherlock noted the license number and then excitedly went into the kitchen.

And he couldn’t even say John’s name to get his attention.

Hesitantly, he reached out to tug on John’s sleeve.

“Oh, what is it, chap?” asked John.

Sherlock was too excited to grimace about the word ‘chap,’ grabbing John’s sleeve and dragging him over to the computer screen. He pointed at the vehicle on the screen and beamed.

“So that’s the van, then?” John asked. “How are we going to find it?”

Sherlock fought back an eyeroll and pointed at the license plate, where the number was clearly displayed. It wasn’t even covered up with anything, or have a fake license sticker on top of it. How strange and curious.

“So, we have to ask Lestrade to run these plates,” John said.

Sherlock nodded.

“Maybe we can finally get to the bottom of this,” John said. “Do you want to go right now?”

It was late afternoon, and Lestrade worked late tonight. Not that Sherlock wouldn’t bother him in his off hours if the situation called for it, and it certainly did on this occasion.

John was already pulling on his coat and getting his shoes back on. He was clearly raring to go, even if it was only down to the NSY building. Just spending time in the monotony of ordinary life was apparently grating on John. This was why John always came when Sherlock said there was a case. Because in those moments, he was anything but ordinary.

The first person that they saw upon their arrival at the Yard was Sally Donovan. Sally frowned at the sight of them and put a hand on her hip in clear disapproval.

“What do you want, freak?” she asked.

"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter," Sherlock replied snarkily, not caring if it sounded weird to her.

“What?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“What singest thou? it said; Know'st thou not, there is but one theme for ever-enduring bards?” Sherlock said smugly.

“Fine, be that way,” Sally said. She turned to John and asked, “What does he want?”

“We have a license plate we need run,” John replied, smiling slightly at Sherlock’s words.

“You know, we’re not your personal database,” Sally said as she took them to her desk. “You can’t just get us to run plates for you whenever. It’s against the rules.”

She said all this and then demanded, “So what’s the number then?”

As they were waiting for the plates to run, Lestrade spotted them and came over, munching on a biscuit as he did.

“Now what are you doing here?” he asked, seeming puzzled as to why they were voluntarily spending time with Sally.

“I’m running plates for them,” Sally said.

“You know, we can’t just run plates willy-nilly,” Lestrade said.

“That’s what I said,” Sally said.

“And let me guess, Sherlock doesn’t care about that, whatever he wants is too important for silly things like rules,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock nodded and waved his hand. They knew him well enough that he didn’t even have to say anything, which was good for him, in his current condition.

“Speaking of the plates, they’ve finished running,” Sally said. “Our database says that the license belongs to a Mr. Harry Fielding.”

Wait, what?

“What?” John repeated Sherlock’s inner query. He turned to Sherlock. “Isn’t that the guy who’s in the mental hospital?”

Sherlock nodded and frowned. That didn’t help them much, and he really should have considered that the tire marks would belong to Mr. Fielding. After all, it had been Mr. Fielding who had lead them to the warehouse in the first place. Back to square one again.

This was starting to get frustrating, and Sherlock groaned and threw his arms up in the air and huffed. He twirled and left the room, hearing John apologizing for him behind him.

“Sherlock, Sherlock wait,” John said. “What does this mean? Have we made any progress at all? Surely we can look up who that building belongs to and figure out something.”

John was being so reasonable about it that Sherlock snapped, “"Could not all hell afford you such a devil?"

John drew up short.

“You’re doing it again,” John said, and Sherlock was so focused on the latest news from the case that he didn’t hear the warning note in John’s voice.

“You’re treating me like…” John said, and then his voice trailed off. “Never mind. It’s obvious you don’t need me to interfere in your case. It’s all up to you and your brilliant deductions.”

That drew Sherlock up short, and he stopped. John nearly ran into his back and huffed as Sherlock turned around. He raised his eyebrows.

“No need to be so snarky with me,” John said. “Look, you’re obviously frustrated, but that doesn’t mean that you should snap at me.”

To Sherlock, it seemed like a perfect reason to get frustrated.

“Well,” John said. “Let’s get a cab then.”

Sherlock sighed. What to do, what to do?


	5. What Can ail Thee?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visits Mr. Fielding and discovers something important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I haven't yet watched The Final Problem of S4, so hopefully it will be kind to me. I know a few people are really angry, but I will reserve judgment until I see it. As for writing fics, I think I will probably write something about S4 after I finish watching it. I hope you all haven't given up on my WIPs. I know I haven't updated them in like a year, but I do mean to continue them. See you all soon!

It took Sherlock until midnight that night to realize something very important. He snapped out of his daze on the couch and shot upright. John was asleep, so he couldn’t show him what he had discovered.

The tape of the van took place after Mr. Fielding had ended up in the hospital. And that meant that somebody else had been driving it out of the warehouse. It could possibly be a family member, but why would they go to the warehouse in the first place? 

This is what it came down to: he had to question Mr. Fielding somehow, and that meant researching how to communicate even if both of them had the same impediment. He couldn’t give up over a minor inconvenience. 

What had Mr. Fielding been doing in the first place when he had discovered the matchboxes? Where had they all come from? What did the warehouse have to do with anything? And who was driving Mr. Fielding’s van now that he was in hospital? The questions were piling up.

It wasn’t an optimal time to go and try to talk to Mr. Fielding again, sadly. He would have to wait until daylight hours to go and question him.

What he could do was try and find out more about the building itself. Who owned it, and why was it in such a state of disrepair? Why had Mr. Fielding circled it on the map when he had been found surrounded by the matchboxes elsewhere, on the other side of London, in fact?

Nothing made sense, and Sherlock couldn’t even ask the questions he wanted.

There was one thing that he could do now, and that was get some answers about the building itself. It shouldn’t be too hard to discover who owned it, even if he did have to painstakingly type out the address letter by letter. If only he could communicate with his homeless network. They would have been a great help, but sadly, they needed instruction to be useful in this instance.

Sherlock spent the rest of the night researching using John’s laptop. There was something strange going on. The building belonged to a scientific research company, or so Sherlock had discovered. However, when he tried to look the company up further, it didn’t appear to exist.

Merlin Consulting, it was called.

Sherlock frowned at the screen, and his mouth turned down in a pout. How was he supposed to figure out how the warehouse tied into everything if the company that owned the building didn't even exist? It didn't make any sense.

There wasn't much that he could do tonight. As much as he wanted to keep researching and figuring out the clues, he would have to wait until morning. He would have to visit the warehouse again, and go talk to Mr. Fielding.

*~*~*

Morning seemed to take forever to come, but finally, it was light enough to constitute morning. John woke up and began preparing for his shift at the clinic. He seemed surprised to see Sherlock awake at that hour.

"Didn't realize you were awake," John said.

"Who has not wak'd to list the busy sounds of summer morning, in the sultry smoke of noisy London?" Sherlock replied.

"That was surprisingly coherent," John said.

"Exuberence is beauty," replied Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes. "That less so."

Sherlock shrugged. He really had no control of what came out of his mouth these days. 

John knew this though, and shook his head as he went to the table to collect his wallet and keys.

"See you later, Sherlock," said John as he went out the door.

"Depart not as thy shadow came," Sherlock murmured in return.

Now. First thing was first: the warehouse.

The warehouse was exactly as he had left it, and no matter what he did, he couldn't find any other clues as to why Mr. Fielding had circled the warehouse on his map. It was entirely frustrating, and Sherlock's only consolation was that he hadn't missed anything the first time. There really was nothing to glean from the warehouse. 

Well, second thing was to go visit Mr. Fielding in the hospital again. This would be infinitely more trying without John, but needs must. He wanted to take a taxi, but there was no way to direct it without coming across as a complete nutter. He wished that John was with him again, and decided that he would take transit.

Sherlock hated transit, but at least that didn't require talking. In fact, Sherlock avoided talking to anyone on transit as much as possible normally, so it wasn't even strange that he said nothing the entire trip. 

The people at the front desk of the hospital recognized him immediately, which was helpful. 

"You want to visit Mr. Fielding, I take it," said the first receptionist.

Sherlock simply nodded, and he was taken up to where everyone was watching telly in the lounge, among them, Mr. Fielding.

"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering?" asked Sherlock once Mr. Fielding was in front of him.

Mr. Fielding looked disappointed that Sherlock had not yet solved the mystery, but he also didn't send Sherlock away, so there was that. Sherlock got a blank piece of paper out of his pocket and drew a van on it as best he could. Mr. Fielding watched with interest, and Sherlock pointed at him. Mr. Fielding looked surprised, and patted his own chest. Sherlock nodded. Sherlock got out the map again and pointed at the place where the warehouse was located, then pointed at the van again.

This time, Mr. Fielding turned red, and looked angry. He clenched his hands into fists and shook his head. He gestured at Sherlock for the map. He drew another circle around a spot on the map in a residential area of London, and then patted his own chest again. His house.

That had been on Sherlock's list of things to check out, but it was good to know that he and Mr. Fielding were on the same page. Not that he needed Mr. Fielding's permission to go to his house. He would have with or without his agreement.

His house was pretty far away from central London, and Sherlock decided then that he needed John to help him get a taxi for this one. Which meant he would have to wait for John to get home. How irritating.

He wanted to ask Mr. Fielding if he'd had any other visitors, but what came out was, "Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows."

Mr. Fielding just shrugged and shook his head, so Sherlock had no idea whether he had been understood or not. Well, he had gotten everything that he could from this visit at least.

As he was leaving, one of the nurses stopped him.

"Chantelle came in late the other day. Is your friend the doctor keeping her up late?" the nurse giggled.

"Oh, Chantelle was talking about him!" another nurse put in. "He's a romantic, apparently."

Sherlock already knew that about John, but it still stung to hear. He left without saying anything, too intent upon the case to linger long where there were no more leads.

Baker street was intolerable without John there, but Sherlock had nowhere else to be but perhaps the morgue, if Molly would let him in. He couldn't progress in the case without John, but John would insist on remaining at work, even if Sherlock decided to try and drag him away from it. 

Then, there was the Chantelle problem. This was obviously reaching a critical point, and would need to be terminated soon in order to keep John from forming too strong an attachment. He had to come up with a way to keep Chantelle away from John, and without his ability to speak. She wouldn't be swayed easily. John was what most people would term "a good catch" and she probably knew that.

Sherlock knew that, but even if John would admit to liking men, there was no guarantee that he would ever turn in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock wasn't a good catch, and he knew it. Who would want an ex-junkie with so many obvious flaws? He didn't know how John had managed to put up with him for so long.

Well, there was one thing he could do. Try and find out what this Merlin Consulting thing was, and trace it to its origin. It had to exist somewhere if they owned the warehouse.

Nothing.

Sherlock nearly flung his laptop across the room in frustration. What could possibly exist and not exist at the same time? This was intolerable. Sherlock put his computer aside and flopped down on the sofa to sulk.

His phone beeped.

He picked it up in excitement, wondering if it were John.

An unknown and untraceable number had texted him: Two days. It was obviously Mycroft reminding him that he had agreed to take their parents to see Chicago. He remembered well enough, as much as he would like to delete it. He threw his phone across the room and lay back on the couch again.

The door downstairs opened.

Familiar footsteps climbed the seventeen stairs up to their flat, and Sherlock waited in anticipation for John to appear. He looked to be in a good mood, which Sherlock hoped meant that he would be in the mood to trek across London to go look at Mr. Fielding's house.

His hopes were dashed at once.

"I'm going out tonight, Sherlock!" John said. "Chantelle and I are going to go see a show. Don't you dare try and drag me off on a case."

Sherlock gaped at him.

"That's a good pal, I knew I could count on you," John continued blithely.

"But I need you!" Sherlock wanted to scream, but what came out was: "Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; thus unlamented let me dye; steal from the world, and not a stone tell where I lye."

John frowned. "No need to be so dramatic, Sherlock. I know that we have a case ongoing, but surely it can wait until tomorrow."

It could _not_ wait until tomorrow, and John should know that. But he was too embroiled in his own silly love life to realize that Sherlock's entire wellbeing counted on them solving this case as soon as possible. How could John not realize how important this was?

Sherlock tried to tell John that his repeated actions of dating insipid women would only end in tragedy, but what he said was, "The man who never alters his opinion is like standing water, and breeds reptiles of the mind."

"What are you on about, Sherlock?" John asked. "I'm not sure what you meant by that, but it didn't sound at all complimentary."

Sherlock shook his head and threw his hands up in the air. He couldn't even properly communicate his frustration, and how John was letting him down with this. 

"I don't care how much you want to go on a case, Sherlock," John said. "This relationship is finally working out for me, and I don't want to ruin it. You'll just have to go by yourself."

Sherlock yelled, "Ye Gods! And is there no relief for Love? On me Love's fiercer flames for ever prey, By night he scorches, as he burns by day."

"Whatever you mean, I'm sure it wasn't anything nice," John said. "I'm leaving. Goodbye Sherlock, and good riddance. I'll see you when you've calmed down somewhat."

John stomped out the door without even changing into his date shoes. Sherlock screamed wordlessly, and threw himself down on the couch. To his horror, he could feel tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He dashed them away, and lay there trembling with the force of his anger.

John couldn't not know what he was doing to Sherlock. He just cared more about insipid women than Sherlock.

Well, one thing he could do now was go without John.

He scrounged around the flat for cash for a cab, finding John's date stash as he did so. Well, John could do without his date money if all he did with it was go out with that awful Chantelle. Besides, Sherlock needed it.

Sherlock went out onto the street to hail a cab, the map with the location of Mr. Fielding's house circled on it clenched in his hand. He pointed to the spot on the map, and the cab driver obviously understood, because he pulled away from the curb without another word.

"Could I come near your beauty with my nails, I could set my ten commandments in your face," Sherlock muttered to himself, thinking of Chantelle.

"Eh, what's that?" the cabbie said over his shoulder.

"My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, Or else my heart, concealing it, will break," Sherlock said to him with a sigh.

"Right, whatever, mister," the cabbie replied with a shrug. "So long as you pay your fare, you can be as loony as you like."

Sherlock fell silent and lapsed into gloomy contemplation. He could not help but dwell on John and his date with Chantelle. He had gone out to the show with her. Not that Sherlock even liked shows, and would definitely not go, even if it were John asking him. He preferred crap telly to shows. One could watch that from the comfort of their own house.

The cab ride was a rather long one, going to the outskirts of London. Sherlock had ample time to brood about John.

Just as he was really beginning to simmer, he got a text message. Hurriedly, he got his mobile out to check and see if it were John.

It was.

_Help me_ , it read, and it made Sherlock's heart leap into his throat in sudden terror.

_I'm surrounded by clinic nurses_ , the text continued. _Some of Chantelle's friends "just happened" to be at the same show._

Oh, already Chantelle was trying to reel John in by introducing him to her close friends and co-workers. What she didn't realize was that John was skittish about committment, and would rather not meet friends until much later on in the dating timeline. Many before her had made the same mistake.

_You don't have to text back_ , a second message read. _Just get me out of here!_

Unfortunately, Sherlock hadn't the power to help John out. He was too far away, and Sherlock was already on the way to Mr. Fielding's house. He couldn't communicate with the cab driver that he had to turn around. 

_Can't_ , he typed out painstakingly. _Sorry_.

_Sherlock, I'm serious, I can't put up with them anymore_ , John messaged him.

_Can't_ , Sherlock repeated. _Away_. 

He couldn't do anything else, and while he received several more pleading texts from John, he had to continue on his course. And, a part of him whispered rebelliously, if John really had wanted to avoid such unpleasantness, then he should have come with Sherlock to begin with instead of going out with Chantelle.

The cab pulled up to the curb of a suburban house. He was here.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://testosterone-tea.tumblr.com/)


End file.
